


Can you teach me how to dance real slow

by Anuna



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, F/M, Post - Movie, Romance, Trust Issues, pre - movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:26:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anuna/pseuds/Anuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for be_compromised promptathon, using the following prompt: <i>can we get some dancing prompts up in here? cos part of Natasha's background is ballet which was retconned later but we'll ignore that and ballet is a very structured core driven style and completely against giving in. it's not a matter of flexibility or adaptation, but with Clint it's about release and surrender. </i></p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>...so maybe that was more of a metaphor for trust issues than a prompt?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Can you teach me how to dance real slow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunny_serenity](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sunny_serenity).



> I know a little bit about dancing, I don't know all that much about ballet, but I hope I didn't mess this up completely. I probably use different songs as a driving inspiration or a theme too much. The song I referenced here is "American Pie" by Don McLean.

He unnerves her. Not because she's scared – she doesn't just get scared. It's different. It's hearing someone else breathing two meters away while she's trying to hack the computer system and extract information. Her hands type too fast, she makes a mistake and curses. To her left Clint glances at her, but says nothing. He's like that, he notices things, stores them for later use, finds a way to make an important point out of it. 

Fifteen minutes later she's done; and they sneak out of the rich business man's mansion and slip into the night.

Clint whistles. She clenches her teeth and tells herself to calm down. 

*

“This is ridiculous,” she says. Coulson doesn't say anything. 

“It's not, actually,” Clint replies. “It's called rehearsing.”

“I don't do rehearsals,” she says and folds her arms. Coulson looks thoroughly amused, but there's an edge to his expression. 

“We do things a bit differently,” he says. 

Clint nears her. He's close enough for her to strike and knock him down in several different ways, and he knows this pretty well. Still he comes close and then closer. 

“ _I_ need the rehearsal,” he says. “I’ve never danced with you, and obviously, we need to look like people who have done it together quite a few times,” he says. 

She doesn't like it, but she agrees. 

 

*

“I should get another one,” she says. 

“No time,” he counters. 

“Clint -”

“I know what I'm doing,” he assures. “Now stand still.”

She stands still, but she's not completely convinced. Granted, Clint Barton has many secret skills, but sewing is not something she expected. (She can't sew. Except if wounds are in question. But that's a whole different matter.)

“I lived in the circus,” he says. “I know how to fix things.”

“This is silk and lace,” she says. She feels his hands on her, where the lace covers her back. They're warm and steady, and she can tell he isn't fumbling with the needle. 

“I've seen more demanding materials,” he says. “You don't want a dress with sequins. This was probably damaged before you put it on.”

“Probably,” she agrees. She _doesn't_ damage the clothes. 

She is still for a few more moments. It's strange, feeling this man so close to her, having him touch her without any further intent than to fix her dress. She exhales, slowly, and tells herself that this is okay. That they're supposed to cooperate. 

“There, done,” he says. 

She toes to the mirror and does her best to inspect the dress, but she can't find the spot where it was torn, unless she nears the mirror very very close and turns in a way that makes her neck hurt. 

“Well done,” she says when she decides it's _better_ than just satisfactory. Much better.

He grins. “Told you.”

 

*

“Not bad,” Coulson says after they've waltzed for ten minutes around the room. This time she's supposed to pass for a former pro dancer. 

“Just 'not bad'?” Clint asks as he drops his hands from her sides. Natasha licks her lips; she isn't sure why she's feeling self-conscious. She feels unsettled, even though it's been months and months and SHIELD knows probably everything about her. They're sending her on missions, and it's mostly surveillance and extraction of information. She never goes alone, which is the standard procedure of the organization, but she prefers doing her work alone. 

Coulson shrugs, looks at Natasha. “You could use some practice, but it's okay as it is,” he says pleasantly, then he smirks. This guy is hard to read, difficult to pin down (even if he's genuinely nice, when he wants to be); but that's something she's used to. Clint Barton is an open book, or at least more open, more readable than any other man she's been exposed to. When he tells her things he _means_ them. 

 

*

 

She's spent three days and nights attached to Clint's hip, sharing one small room and a tiny toilet with him; she hadn't killed him (even though she wanted to, on a couple of occasions), and she didn't go insane. Yet.   
The result of their effort is metric miles of photographic evidence of the exchanges happening in offices across the street. Her arms and back and neck are sore, and she's heard _American Pie_ enough times to last her a lifetime. Thankfully, Clint's got a decent voice and talents for finding the best takeout food. 

“You're tired,” he says, and he's right. _You're tired, you're hungry, you're sore_ ; it's unsettling how he can read her; but there are no bad intentions behind his eyes. When he keeps watch, she _can_ sleep. 

So she says, “Yes,” and he smiles a little. 

“Let me take over,” he offers and she gives him the spot by the window. 

 

*

 

“Stiff back,” he says. “Ballet?” 

She eyes him. Glares a little. Her back isn't _stiff_. He smirks, and it's impressive how he keeps looking at her while she's glaring at him. 

Ballet is not in her file. Ballet gave her poise, posture, endurance. Ballet taught her to be graceful while not giving in, and it's a reflex, just like it's a reflex to grab the gun from underneath her pillow. 

“I'm impressed,” she says. His hand slides lower down her back and stops in the middle. Her muscles are disciplined and unrelenting under his warm palm. 

“Just relax a little,” he says. She relaxes, but it still takes conscious effort. 

His Chicago apartment is nicer than she expected it to, it's small, neat, and there's a hardwood floor. It's a warm summer and she's barefoot, so is he. They're rehearsing another dancing act, even though they don't need to. It's a running joke, something they've got between them, and even though Coulson gets to share, it's most definitely _their_ thing. Clint brings them coffee and food, she works out their routes, books flights and hotels, and makes sure there's a way to reach their safe houses. He observes from above, analyzes, directs; she hacks, seduces, gets the codes and intel. They do things in a coordinated fashion, elegant and neat, without loose ends. She likes it that way. 

Except this. Sometimes she makes mistakes on purpose, steps on his toes, refuses to follow the lead. Sometimes he makes something up, exaggerates; and sometimes Coulson leaves them notes, criticizing this or that. 

The music is a slow waltz, one of Clint's country songs she doesn't enjoy, but tolerates. Her feet shift in time with his, her toe touches the side of his foot. She lowers her face and inhales - the scent is familiar, the muscles under her palm reliable. 

He hums and they dance. 

 

*

An injured arm and washing hair don't mix. She has to keep the cast for the next two weeks, and she absolutely hates the feeling of unwashed hair. 

She goes to Clint. It doesn't even feel like a conscious choice. She could count on the fingers of a single hand when she went to a hair professional. She's on good terms with Maria Hill and several other people, but this is something different. This is her hair. It's the living history of everything she's been through and what she's done, at least since she cut it the last time, and that was after she arrived here. It was around the time when the dancing rehearsals had begun. Her hair grew along with shared coffee, and trainings and missions together; missions with Clint. She is a lone creature by training, and all of her recent memories, the not-so-bad memories are colored by his presence. He was there through everything that was important.

Clint brings a chair into the bathroom, as if this is something they do every day. She sits and leans her head back, to rest against the sink, and he starts the water. She can feel warmth and his hands, strong and steady, the pressure just enough to make her close her eyes. 

Her body loosens and so does her mind. She opens her eyes from time to time to look at him; he's concentrated on his work, on every detail. His fingers move slowly, he's taking his time, observing her; so when she sighs contently he increases the pressure, just a little bit and just right, and she contemplates the fact that she is feeling okay being known like this by someone. 

He starts to rinse the shampoo out of her hair and she closes her eyes. Her mind is drifting, slow and heavy, and a voice emerges from her memory; familiar, known, forgotten - _loved_.

_Natashenka, Natashenka. You're such a pretty girl -_

When she opens her eyes Clint is looking at her, question and worry in his eyes. 

“Tash?” he says, his tone soft, familiar, and the other voice is gone. She licks her lips and blinks, realizing why her vision had suddenly blurred.

“It's -” she swallows and looks at him, catches herself before she completely falls. “It's nothing.”

He nods. Just like that, and continues, just keeps on going, accepts that she won't tell him, at least not just yet. He lets her be and takes care of her hair; and Natasha, she closes her eyes, letting his touch ground her.

 

*  
Her throat is burning, dry and rough like sandpaper, and there's fog in her mind, choking her like thick smoke. There's pain in her wrists and arms, and her mind is whirring around it. She clings to it, the eye of the storm, the only thing she knows is real. 

And then it stops; it gradually leaves her senses and she almost panics, but there's something else. Something she knows. 

“Tash,” says the voice, and that's her name, spoken by someone known. She can feel it now, someone's shoulders within the circle of her arms. The feeling is familiar; it brings safety with a warm palm on her back, and an arm supporting her into a standing position. 

The smell, the touch, the sound of breathing. 

Her mind slows down, stops, and she thinks, _Clint_. A sound escapes her throat, broken and not completely human. He holds her and she begins to shake. She was beaten and she was drugged, she lost track of time, started slipping. 

“Shhh,” he says. “It's over,” and she nods against his chest. 

She can't stand on her own, and she can't walk, so he carries her. Her head is on his shoulder and she feels like a broken doll, she knows she's helpless, but this is _Clint_. His arms are steady, and she is so tired. 

She lets herself slip.

 

*

Summer rain is beating hard against the windows. The air is warm and heavy, it's slightly hard to breathe. She crawls from under the sheet, walks the short distance from the bed to the window barefoot and looks out, to the gloomy predawn light. Manhattan and Loki, the fighting, the dust; helicarrier and Coulson gone, it's all still too fresh in her mind. She opens the window and stretches her hand outside. The Mediterranean rain is almost warm, giving her goosebumps. 

Behind her Clint stirs and gets up, walks to her. Palms connect to forearms, naked legs touch; his chin rests on top of her head. She leans back into him, breathes in and out, but she's still unsettled. 

“Come here,” he says and turns her around. Then he pulls her close, her hands around his neck, his around her waist. He leans his cheek against hers, and her hand slips down onto his chest, to feel the beat of his heart. He starts to move to a rhythm of his own, slow, soft, just right; and she doesn't even need to hear it, she just follows. After a minute or two he begins to hum, and then sing. She still doesn't like this song, but it's possibly his favorite thing when he's feeling out of place, so she lets him. Besides, it's a sad song, so it fits; and she wonders about their mortal souls, if anything can save them. His voice slides into the chorus, pleasant and clear, and he sings until their toes turn cold. 

There are no mistaken steps this time, no teasing. There won't be notes and comments any more, no more Coulson to tell them it's not quite right and grin when they protest. 

They stop, Clint still holding her. He leans closer and kisses her, once, twice, three times, long and slow, and they fit. He moves so she can see his face clearly in the faint light, and she wonders what they are saying goodbye to. Whatever it is it can wait, for the time being she can slow dance with him to the sound of the rain and the timbre of his voice, and nobody would ever doubt they aren't doing this since the beginning of time.


End file.
